The Funeral

The head of the nail is a ruby on wood.

Only rain should make those perfect glass pebbles,

surrounding the incense curling up like dancers’ hands.

.

So clear, so colorful,

so everything it’s not supposed to be.

These dark huddled figures, skittish like fall leaves,

color pooling at their feet.

.

She remembered:

her hair twisted across the pillow like roots

on the day when the sun dipped into the river

like a child meets the sea for the first time.

 .

The child sat in the grass, toes in the water;

ripples catching the wind like sails.  

Her mother weaving fairy crowns out of daisies;

clumsy braids like wizard’s thread,

hands like pebbles from the riverbed,

eyes crafting secret kingdoms

of waltzing Sunspots and golden Fireflies.

 .

But billowing black frills

            bring her back again. 

.

Against the velvet night, the moon rises.

She stares, mute, at the wooden box;

a machine,

she rusts in the rain and creaks in the wind.